


Monochrome

by a_prince



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 50's AU, 50's Music References Galore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Divergence, Fluff, Lavellan is a 50's heartthrob, Light Mentions/Descriptions of Sex/Sex Work, M/M, Romantic Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-04 12:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11554986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_prince/pseuds/a_prince
Summary: Everyone's fallen for falling in love. Dorian wishes he didn't think the same, but the gorgeous singing elf on the black and white TV screen is making it hard for him not to.Inspired by the 50's era and its cult of romance-worshipping teen idols.





	1. Bye Bye Love

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my brainchild that was founded during a large amount of boredom stuck on a plane. 
> 
> There are some mature themes in this, but not too much for a cause of concern... Use discretion, younger friends.  
> 

Infuriated fists banging at the door. Squeaking of the mattress, which continued despite the exasperated knocking, and the ballad playing on the phonograph in the background, filling the room with promises of heavenly, innocent romance - if only the lyrics weren’t so terrible. A ballad written by a young teenage elf thinking he found real love, or, more likely, written by a record label in an measly attempt to get this elven chanteur to starhood.

_“I think of your touch on my delicate skin, and I die inside. I think of your lips touching mine, and I drop to my knees in-”_

Agony is the perfect word to describe how he felt right now.

 _He_ could not be blamed for the music.  It was the choice of his partner. This was his partner’s apartment. And those were his partner’s neighbors, too, hollering outside his door.

Whatever this was, it had stopped being tender. Their gentle kisses and teasing brushes against each other’s body that had led them there from the bar abruptly halted the moment their pants flew off, and it had become angry, commanding, his partner shoving his penis inside of him so very machine-like, he wondered if this man had left the factories of Ferelden with some sort of meat pumping mechanism inside of him.

Do forgive him for this imagery.

He was growing insane, growing annoyed at the fact their ugly repetitive motion did not match the rhythm of the ugly, slow love song. He heard the other man wheeze out his name, as if he expected him to enjoy this.  

“Dorian…”

“ _Fasta vass!_ I’ve had enough of this!” He prodded the hungry, sweating man off him. He let himself tumble onto the blood red carpet, and the other man was left sporadic on the bed.

_“Oh… baby! Please. Let. Me. Do you!”_

He stood up and without hesitation stomped to the door, opening it and giving the neighbors their own glance at his beautifully tanned, bare body that did not deserve any more humiliating, desperate intimacy from equally desperate men.

“My sincerest apologies for disturbing your slumber. I can only hope my friend makes it up to you later. You will not see my face here ever again, that’s assured.”

He slammed the door on the faces of the flustered man and woman then bent down for his clothes, which he madly threw onto the floor when things turned primal.

The man pleaded for Dorian to stay, making the mistake of grabbing his wrist. Dorian flashed a firecracker of magic at his face, and the man leaned back with a yelp, covering his offended eyes.

Dorian hastily slipped on his Tevinter tux, leaving most of the gold buttons unfastened, and started to leave, when he turned his attention to the left side of the room.

 _“Your loving is all I need, together we can touch the sky.”_ The phonograph still played the tune of angsty romance.

He had enough of the elf’s nasal voice and ignorance of love, so he strided over and grabbed the record off the turntable. In his own way of saying, “Go fuck yourself”, he let the record combust into flames in his hands, deliberately making the man - who was weeping - watch, until it disintegrated into ashes.

Dorian almost let this encounter end on that horrid note, but he paused when his hand was grasping the door handle. Slowly, he wisted around at the sobbing, pitiful mess on the bed, frown softening and brows dropping in an expression of genuine sympathy.

“I hope we both find what we’re looking for, dear friend.”

He didn’t slam the door on his way out. He descended down the steps quietly, finishing the rest of the buttons on his tux. The chill of the fall Minrathous air hit him, distracting him for a moment from reveling in how horribly he must have hurt that man.

Cars, all in different shades of maroon or black, whizzed by him, emitting fumes of both coal and strange magic. Even at night the Tevinter Imperium never slept, never halted its aura of pride.  Lit windows told Thedas, people in Tevinter were always awake. Lights and flashing signs atop buildings and along the sidewalks camouflaged the Imperium as a part of the starry night sky, due to the dark backdrop of the ancient Tevinter buildings and more recently built apartment complexes/business centers, which, too, shown Tevinter charm in their exterior design. Altus, Laetans, and Soporati all marched the sidewalks. Suits and dresses in a multitude of colors complimented the city’s night sky demeanor. The people were literally like stars, their jeweled outfits sparkling under the light. Some wore capes at hip-length, some had collars, some wore feathers - all accents were subtle, though, to atone with the current conservative fashion of Thedas. Dorian’s suit was skinny-fit, perhaps looking less like a typical Ferelden style tuxedo and more a two-piece body suit, with a golden tie. His round collar was as tall as just below his chin, accented with gold lace. He had a cape; It draped down his left shoulder, a beautiful Tevinter dragon symbol embroidered on its center, glittering with tiny ruby and emerald scales.   

He passed a young couple in extravagant dress, strolling hand-in-hand and giggling. Dorian could easily tell they were Altus, _straight,_ and _happy;_ He grimaced at the sight of them.

The man he met at the bar and followed to his apartment - very easily, he recalled - had been just like him, desperate - desperate for male touch and companionship in a society where Altus mages like them were carefully bred to fit the role of all-ruler of the Imperium. The technology of the modern age had done little to the influence of the Magisterium. If anything, it fueled it. It took a hefty amount of magic to control it all, keep things running. Thus, the new task was a very important responsibility to the mage leaders. You would be famed and respected for your service to the modern world, an added bonus to the luxuries as a noble. Once, this was young apprentice Dorian’s dream. He had been real close to such a position, after some trials and errors in life, when he began his apprenticeship with Gereon Alexius, and won himself a place in the Minrathous Circle. All of that promise was lost to a life of solitude and fabricated pleasure.

The elves on the small televisions on display as he passed the shops, singing and performing their hearts out on black-and-white screens, had lesser a chance at success than Altus Enchanter Dorian Pavus. All he had to lose was his dignity; He could choose to live the rest of his life screaming on the inside. Yet, he still felt trapped enough, perhaps the word he could even use was oppressed, to sympathize with them. It didn’t hurt, he thought, to think they had something in common - he, the gay upper class mage, and the millions of elven servants.

After the blunders at the Pavus estate, he had no intentions of returning home, though the prospect of returning to his bedroom was very attractive, in the comfort of his own bed, deep in luxurious thick, silk blankets; his fancy commissioned phonograph adorned with beautiful Tevinter accents carved into the wood; his large record collection that showed a genuinely _good_ taste in music; his television that actually harnessed power from the Fade to work, occasionally producing color images-

He had to stop feeling so nostalgic about home, because he would not be welcome there for a while. He did not feel welcome there.

This was his doing. It was his doing that he was renting a shitty, smelly apartment in a complex that sat next to a potions factory, a factory that farted out fumes he thought a perfect replication of a high dragon’s’ breath. It was his doing that the apartment he was forced to rent - the recent surge of popular Elven performers had caused a rise of tourism in Tevinter, so there were lesser and lesser places available -  was on the floor simultaneously occupied by the elderly - and bitter. Walking past them was similar to being spat in the face. They complained about the technological advancements of the modern world, about how they interfered with magic, about how the tamperings of the Fade the technology caused would disturb it and cause a catastrophe like the Sixth Blight -   they liked to yell all this blasphemy at him, like he was the proprietor of it all. ‘Talk to the young handsome Elf you like gawking at on your television, he’s the reason for this all!’ was his last retort.

The apartment was small. Humid. Smelly. And bright yellow. The lime green Tevinter patterns on the walls made an effort to make the room pleasing to the eye, and the furniture of course was pretty, Tevinter dragon accents etched into the wood - likely all done by a machine in a factory -  but he was less than pleased the moment he first walked into his room seeing it was the color of piss.

Dropping the contents of his suit’s pockets on the desk, a mere five gold coins, his heart dropped. Between his alcoholism and his debauchery, his savings were depleting. He needed a new source of income than the bank account Daddy Pavus had gifted a 20 year old Dorian. He reasoned this new source could get him a better housing unit (at least one that did not have piss walls) and better neighbors. Where he would get this money, he hadn’t the slightest clue. His eyes trailed to the discarded House Pavus pin on his vanity, he hadn’t worn it since he moved out, and for a moment he considered -

 _No_.

He shook off the thought. For now, anything sentimental he had with him was not to be thrown away to a merchant. He knew he wasn’t ready.

Maybe he could make it as a entertainer, like the Elves tried to. He knew of many human performers who were doing quite well, such as king of rock-and-roll Cullen Rutherford. Tevinter was the hub of recording labels, and in Tevinter lived elven servants. In Tevinter also lived families desperate to raise their social status, so most of the stars of the entertainment world were Elven, their masters hiding behind their shadows, ultimately the ones garnering their success.

The unfortunate thing was he was not as versed in dance or song as he was in the arcane arts. Nobody made money off measly magic tricks, except for possibly dwarfs.

If all paths seemed impossible, he told himself he could try stripping.

Dorian laughed out loud, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He was in shock, he was an emotional, barely sober, sweaty mess, and he was talking nonsense.  

He walked over to the window, pushed back the curtains, grabbed a bottle of ale, and leaned against it, taking his first sip. The apartment’s saving grace was the view of the Tevinter city.

“The city that never sleeps.”

He started humming to an Elf’s love song he fancied, tapping the bottle in rhythm.

At this point, he was running out of options in the Imperium. He knew, soon he would be all alone. Perhaps he already was. Mentor Alexius was lost to him, his only redeeming chance at Archon-dom succumbing to a cult who wore fedoras, most doing shady and frivolous things in Tevinter alleyways.

Though their fallout still stung, he learned that finishing a bottle or two of ale made it fizzle out of his mind, until its return in the form of a hangover come morning.

His father’s disapproving voice sometimes rang in his head, returning as an unwelcome tune like an elf's first single. 

_A lanky elf takes the stage. It’s one of our house servants, never knew his name. He lifts up the mic, the lights flash on, and he drawls out, after a piano plays a solemn melody,_

_“Get out…you are no son of mine,”_

Dorian took a deep swig of ale.

_This was a long time ago, Dorian._

He had nothing left. His sad life transitioned into bar visits, sex, and drooling over attractive rock-and-roll singers like Cullen Rutherford.

He ran his hand through his hair again, and he frowned, pulling it back and feeling the oils of his hair gel and sweat on his fingers.

He needed a bath. He still reeked of desperate, ugly, meat pump sex. He strode over to the television, switching it on. This tv was an older model, without a remote control. Another tinge of nostalgia of the advanced Fade-touched tv, awaiting his return in his bedroom. He knelt down, fiddling with the dial to search for a channel he could stay on while he bathed and readied himself for bed. It landed on a talk show he liked, hosted by renowned author Varric Tethras, who was interviewing some run-of-the-mill elven music star.

When the elf entered the stage, the women in the audience screamed in rabid joy, like they saw the manifestation of Andraste herself. He smiled humbly, waving at the crowd of crazy fans.

Dorian stood up, scowling.

Girls could dream about carefree love, where their boyfriend took them to diners and bought them milkshakes the two would share. They could stroll down the streets of Tevinter or Orlais or Antiva, hand in hand. Their boyfriend could spoil them with tickets to the theater where they could see their favorite star perform a lovey-dovey song that would spout out the same nonsense as this unrealistic interpretation of love.

Maker, he was bitter. He reeked of desperation sweat.

“Maker’s breath, it’s him! It’s Amatus! He’s so dreamy!” He “waved” his hands in the air, a gesture looking more like he was shaking off leftover magic off his palms, lazy and mocking, before stripping off his suit and slipping into the bathroom.

Dorian could hear the elf’s singing voice faintly from the other room, while he set his nightgown atop the maroon colored toilet, switched on the lighting rune on the ceiling, and activated the shower. All this was done with a simple wave of his hand. There were switches for soporati residents on the walls, but as he was a skilled magic user, they were useless to him.

He squirted out a dollop of Elfroot and Lavender scented shampoo onto his palm and went to work on his hair.

As he was vigorously scrubbing his mane, eager to get the grime of shame off his person, Dorian casually noted how beautiful this particular elf’s voice was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it through Dorian's moping, good for you. Now the fun can really begin.


	2. Bobby Sox to Stockings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was insanely fun to write. For the 20 people who read the first chapter, I edited it slightly to fit with plot changes. The 50's gives me a lot of creative freedom to work with.

The suited man, his mouth curving down, sat up in the armchair and crossed his legs. “No, no, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying anything’s wrong with him.”

“We’re all on the edge of our seats, Curly. Tell us your truthful impression of our new star.” Varric rested his head on his palm, his smirk teasing the man across him.

The audience made approving noises. Cullen chuckled and looked down, fiddling with his already-straightened red tie. “I-I don’t quite understand why my opinion of him matters, Varric. He isn’t competition. He’s just - a teen idol. He isn’t my genre.”

“Sure, he’s competition. We’re all trying to win over the girls, right?” The female audience applauded and bellowed, loudly agreeing, and Varric’s smirk grew wider. He nodded his head at him, saying “See?”

“Anything will count as news these days, Curly. I’m just tryin’a’ get as much views as I can. That’s why you’re here, and that’s why I’m asking you these questions.” He panned the crew in front of him, snickering. “Am I allowed to be this honest on-air?”

The audience responded with a rowdy laugh. Cullen’s hesitant smile grew, and he attempted to sit up again.

“I _do_ think he can sing. I think whom ever’s writing his songs is doing a great job winning over the hearts of Thedesian girls.”

Varric nodded in approval. “Humble, honest answer.” Then, he raised an eyebrow. His smirk hadn’t faltered.

“But let’s all agree that even I, a dwarf with a successful talk show, didn’t expect this coming from the Dalish.”

Cullen exchanged a snicker with the host. “Right. I didn’t know the Dalish allowed themselves to be involved in modern culture,  much less today’s music, if I’m honest.”

“Yeah! We all thought those guys stayed in the woods, minding their own business. Then they come and surprise us! It’s a pleasant surprise.

-You know what my favorite part of him is?”

“Hmm… I’ve heard his ears are larger than most elves.” The corners of Cullen’s lips curled as his fingers lightly tapped his chin, regaining comfort.

Varric leant back in his chair and eyed the crowd with an approving brow raise. “It’s true, folks, I’ve seen ‘em! By just a little bit, though. They’re cute, but that isn’t it. It’s definitely the face tattoo. Didn’t you know, they write on each other’s foreheads in complete silence.”

Cullen scoffed. “I couldn’t stay silent during anything that involves physical contact, much less needles to the face…”

“I see, is this a hint as to why you like to wiggle your legs all the time and make suggestive noises in your songs?”

The other man’s cheeks flushed red before he started laughing, hiding his face in his arm. Everyone in the audience laughed along with him.

“I-I just sorta let loose on stage…” The female audience gasped and let out a squeal; Cullen buried his head deeper in his shoulder in happy shock.

“Alright, alright, girls. Settle down. Blushing isn’t part of the act.”

His band, already set up, suddenly began the start to one of his hit songs.

Cullen jerked up, eyebrows rising. “Oh, I’m on?”

“Get up, get up man! Sing for them!” The host frantically gestured for the other to stand up, as the audience’s volume raised. “Go, go go!” Varric laughed at the stumbling man.

Cullen jumped up from the seat and jogged to the middle of the stage. He assumed a familiar pose that makes the girls in the crowd squeal - his head’s turned to the side, legs are spread apart, and the microphone is bent diagonally near his mouth.

“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog!”

He lets loose; There is squealing and hollering, shouts of his name in both agony and devotion, as he jigs about. His gelled back hair is already tousled up, strands curling down his forehead. His suit, which appeared a size too big on him - a current fashion trend - danced along. The audience gawked at every suggestive move he made on stage.

Dorian, as well, paid close attention.

He sat cross-legged on the floor eyeing the television. Throughout the performance, his head unconsciously drifted towards the screen. Varric’s show was never one for censorship - Cullen’s entire body was displayed in front of him, and his thoughts were shamefully naughty.

Dorian had originally planned to go out. Visit a diner, a bar, maybe search for a job, but Varric’s morning show began when he finished shaving and tidying his mustache, and both Cullen’s face and the mysterious elf idol being mentioned sparked his interest. So here he sat, like a teenager himself, ogling at an attractive man shimmy around on the television.

The 2 minutes of bliss ended, and someone from Varric’s crew brought a chair and a wooden acoustic guitar on-stage. Cullen sat down and strapped on the guitar. He lost the crowd in a slow, charming ballad, his voice so quiet and seductive it was barely growling leaving his lips.

The song was pretty; If he sat there long enough he’d get drunk off his voice, but the aching in his legs was getting harder to bare. Dorian stood up with a slight wince, rubbed his ankles, then faced the vanity mirror. He heaved his pants higher up his waist and caressed the sleeves of his striped collared shirt until he was satisfied with how he looked.

“Whether or not the Dalish teen idol Olivier Lavellan can upstage the king of rock-and-roll remains a mystery. Curly’s still got it!” Varric said, after Cullen finished his song. The audience cheered.

“Olivier Lavellan.”

The elf now had a name. It felt lovely on Dorian’s lips. He admitted the Orlesian first name made him sound pretentious. Lavellan was exotic; it was beautiful. Perhaps, thanks to a miracle, his music label hadn’t stripped all his Dalish off.

All he needed was a good look at His face.

Dorian twisted around, but a cheery advertisement cartoon for a restoring potion greeted his eyes instead. Would the elf appear in a commercial? He was partially convinced to stay and complete his research, but he was just about ready to leave.

He swiped hair gel out of its tin and mangled his hair some, letting the tips of it gravitate down. Then he reached over his coat hanger and slung on his caped coat over his shoulder.

The Pavus pin still sat on the vanity counter, gathering dust. He saw it in the corner of his eye, and grabbed it. Just in case. He reminded himself he was supposed to be starting his path of rehabilitation today. After fastening it safely on the slip of his pocket, he turned to leave.

The Tevinter cities in the morning were even more bustling than nighttime. Dorian nearly lost his life crossing the Minrathous street. The smells of street food and cigarette smoke greeted him. He entered the sea of suits and dresses as the week’s hits bellowed out of speakers and record shops. Dorian kept his contempt of cheerful teenage lovers internal as he strolled past them down the sidewalk, head stably looking ahead.

He slipped inside a shop, picked up a pack of cigarettes, then threw it onto the register counter. The man behind it gave him a look-over - he noticed. Was it the out-of-style mustache? Was it the Pavus pin, revealing something? Did both relate? Could he tell he was a pathetic, lonely, man-whore who’s made a number of immoral decisions as of late, all in his face? He thought he hid his dark circles well under a thick wall of foundation.

Instead of anything else he expected the man to do, he smirked at him, and silently slid a business card towards his hand.

“I think you’d make a great addition to our club, dear.”

Dorian showed him his disgusted face. “I’ll pass on the offer of joining your band of fedora-ed criminals-” His mouth was left agape as he stared down at the card.

His eyes trailed up the legs of the illustration of a naked man wearing a collared cape. _The Cobra_ was etched in cursive.

He managed out a singular, monotone “Hah”, clenching his teeth, holding in the phantom vomit.

“When I said I was open to stripping, I hadn’t realized the option would be here so soon.” Hesitantly, Dorian glanced up at the waiting man.

He shrugged at Dorian. “If not interested, you’re always welcome to dine.” And as if he didn’t just hand a man a gig to a homosexual pleasure bar, he calmly took the pack of cigarettes and rang it for him. “5 gold.”

Dorian avoided eye contact with him as he dropped the coins, grabbed the pack, and left.

Ah, the big question. He ignored the fact the man knew he was a flit, it wasn’t a surprise he had become notorious in the community. Would he willingly give up his pride to all penis-fucking males in the Tevinter Imperium? The notion truthfully made him want to shed a tear, to think he had let himself drop _this_ low.

If Magister Halward Pavus, if his dear friend Maevaris Tilani, if _anyone who knew him_ found out, he would never hear the end of this until his - likely self-committed - death.

But what other options did he have? Soon, he would be broke. Soon, he would be worth nothing. What other profession is instantly handed to you by business card?

_What other profession is instantly handed to you by business card?_

Dorian was seconds from disintegrating the card to ash, suddenly feeling angry with himself and the bloody Maker, until he heard His voice.

The TV screen he twisted to was instead two large, golden doors.

One look around, and he realized he was back in a familiar area of Tevinter. The couples roaming these streets weren’t heterosexual.

Dorian winced immediately. He clenched his hand, and the card instantly vanished, its dust leaking out his fist.

The name of the bar was in cursive, flashing, and exuberant. _The Cobra._

A magical aura he hadn’t noticed before crippled and contorted thinner until it was gone entirely. He was extremely impressed by the magic the card had possessed, but now he had to address the fact he was right in front of the advertised doors, in front of other people.

“ _Mythal, goddess of love that you are… surely the things I ask…”_

_“_ Can’t be too great a task…” Dorian huffed, glaring at the doors. He slipped on his coat and barged in, immediately hit with the smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and sweat. It was notably empty, since it just turned noon, yet the club was bustling with activity.

“You must be Dorian!” An Antivan accent greeted.

“Ah, yes…” Regret. Nearing suffocation from the combined odor of semen and smoke. “'It is I. The Pavus himself.”

“Lovely to have you in my Tevinter branch, Dorian Pavus.” The blonde elf gestured for him further inside the bar. Dorian felt the eyes of stand-by performers on him. Normally, this would’ve delighted him. Instead, his skin crawled, stuck with the image of himself soon becoming one of them.

“I,” The elf stopped them at his office, turning to him with a friendly smile. “Am Zevran Arainai. Using your intuition would’ve lead you to recognize this isn’t the only _Cobra_ in Thedas. I’m not always here. When I’m not, my friend Abrexius runs things.”

“Wait.” Dorian raised his hand to pause Zevran. “Abrexius. Are you certain you mean _the_ Lord Ulio Abrexius?” Suddenly the Lord’s watchful supervision of him at the academy in Minrathous had new meaning.

“Yes.” Zevran said simply, opening the door and gesturing him inside. He walked over to his desk and leant against it, hands resting atop it. “The type of work here I’m sure you’re familiar with, so there won’t be much of a coronation. You’ll get your work clothes, you’ll sign some papers, and you’ll be all set.”

Dorian suddenly felt queasy. He wasn’t really an anxious man, but this was more daunting than any magic exam, than any Harrowing. “This is moving a bit too fast for me, Zevran…”

“Really?” Zevran raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You wouldn’t tell that to a client, would you?”

The mage gave the elf a nervous clenched-teeth smile. “Make sure the records say I’m only doing this because I have no other options, and I was possessed by a card to come here. A card containing very impressive magic, by the way.”

“I’ll be sure to write all that in your description, and thank you, it was Abrexius’ genius idea.” Zevran opened a drawer and pulled out some papers. He wrote Dorian’s name and information he already knew, then slid them over so he could fill out the rest.

He found his fingers ached after he was all finished. Not because of the amount he had to write.

_You can still turn back. You can march into his office, sincerely apologize, and leave._ Dorian stared at the comforting darkness of his locker.

_Mythal if you will… Please send for me a girl for me to thrill…_

He slowly exited his head and closed the locker, all while humming the song stuck in his head.

* * *

The male gaze on him was more fun when it wasn’t artificial. He had tried to ignore this singular man’s stare since he began working, which he first noticed when Zevran departed to check up on his Orlais branch.

He didn’t realize that being a stripper included doing servants’ work. Picking up cigarette buds, shattered alcohol bottles, and condom wrappers off the floors, wiping tables, and tidying up the private rooms was not what he thought he’d be doing for most of his first day there.

While wiping ale and saliva off a table, he was able to catch a glimpse at the man who had been closely watching him. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much light around Zevran’s office, and he was wearing a fedora large enough to cover his face under the limited light. He couldn’t salvage any more clues as to the identity of this admirer; He was any other Vint in a suit who had a fondness of Dorian Pavus.

If he was so fond, the man could’ve just walked his way. He was being paid to quench his thirst. Essentially, that meant it was his _job_ to start the confrontation. Dorian hadn’t lost enough of his pride yet to attempt so.

It was later that night that the hatted man took initiative. Dorian felt a calloused hand on his shoulder that began to travel down his back. Before he could turn and address him, the man took him into his arms and laid his head on the mage’s shoulder.

“So this is what’s come of Halward’s son?” A low voice mumbled in his ear.

Dorian immediately broke away and spun around to stare at the man in shock. “Lord Abrexius.”

“In the flesh. I was pleasantly surprised to see your name in our census. I welcome you to _The Cobra._ I assume your father does not know of this, so I promise you right now I will not utter a word of this.”

“That is swell to hear, because if you did, I would’ve had your title as Lord stripped off you, among other threats, like a painful death, and your reanimated corpse cleaning up the messes.”

The Lord chuckled, then slid the back of his hand down Dorian’s cheek. “I do not doubt these threats… I assume now you also know what I seek…”

Dorian was a grown man of 26, he could make adult decisions, such as consenting to sex with a Lord. Still, the possible _scandals_ to come out of sleeping with a Lord at least 20 years older frightened him.

“I…Yes, yes I do. Surely you know what could happen if this got out-” Dorian held his breath when the man laid both hands on his waist.

“Simple, Dorian. It won’t. If you legitimately commit to working here, you’ll be having sex with various Lords my age.” He felt Ulio slightly tug him in the direction of the private rooms.

Dorian nodded, realizing he was correct. “Let me take over, then.” He felt more comfortable in control; He put on a charming smile, peeling the Lord’s hands off his waist and leaving one in his, and ushered him into one of the private rooms.

It was slow-going, but they had intercourse. Dorian honestly hadn’t noticed how _sexy_ Ulio was - why would he have, he was in his _50’s_ , and his admiring gaze on him back then was always unwelcome- and was pleasantly surprised at how much he enjoyed the affinity with the Lord; To the point where he hungered for more of him.

Any morals left in the mage had already been flushed away. He was nearly broke. He had no family, no promising future awaiting him. He had turned to a pathetic life of debauchery even before his gig. Dorian thought he had reached the lowest of the low when he agreed to working at _The Cobra._

So he let it all happen. He let himself messily kiss Ulio afterward, he listened intently when Ulio suggested they continued in a more private place - his estate. They dressed each other, and they slipped out the back door. The intimacy continued in the Lord’s master bedroom. There was cigarette smoke, alcohol, even magic tricks.

What got Dorian the most excited that night, in his drunken state, was finding Olivier’s record.

“You actually bought this?” He had giggled at it, running his hands around the large disc.

“Why? Are you judging me over music taste, now, Dori?”

“No! For some odd fucking reason this man’s voice has been stuck in my head. Do you mind? Let’s have sex with it on.”

Of course, Lord Ulio had agreed.

Just like his appointment at _The Cobra_ , the events afterward sped by way too fast. He had woken up to hollering, then a loud explosion that shook the entire estate. Lord Ulio was shoved into the room by a magic blast, robes tattered and scorched, then brought to his knees. He was chuckling at the man who walked in, attempting to convince him the situation wasn’t as severe as he thought.

When Dorian realized who it was, he knew it was as severe as he thought. Magister Halward Pavus was glaring at him, with so much anger and disappointment and pity, he thought this the best time to reattempt Alexius’ time magic, just to avoid seeing it again.

His father pulled him out of bed, forcing him partially back to reality,  and ordered him to put pants on.

Once clothed, he felt energy on his wrists that disabled his arms from moving, and he felt his grip at the Fade loosening until no longer could he cast any sort of spell.

He was shoved into a car. He was told he was being taken back to be held captive at their Qarinus estate until the scandals died down, until he redeemed himself.

Dorian looked out the window, watching the couples on the sidewalks, this time numb in mind and body.

_“Mythal if you will…”_

His face lit up immediately, and he leaned his head against the window. There was a set of televisions, protected by the glass window, staring back at him.

For the first time, he caught a glimpse of the face of the man he’d already fallen in love with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you like Cullen as Elvis Presley?! Haha, his VA's singing voice is so gorgeous. I think he's an unexpectedly good fit.


	3. Fever

Admittedly, he liked his hair better the way it’d been all his life, disheveled and untouched like brown spindleweed atop his head. He lifted up his hand to rub one of the stiff greased-and-curled-up strands of hair.

“Stop it, Ears!” His hairstylist slapped his hand and shoved it back down on his knee.

 _They aren't_ that  _large._

He sighed softly, eyes drifting to the corner of the room. It didn’t offer much amusement, so his eyes were lured back to his reflection in the mirror, to his vallaslin. They traced the tattoo, trailing it up his nose and followed the branches that flooded his forehead.

It was the dedication to the Patron of motherhood and justice, Mythal, in the shape of a beautiful piece of art that had taken him a few years after 18 to “earn”. Mythal also was - and this was a fact that now any Thedesian girl could tell you- the Goddess of love.

“Here’s what you will be wearing, Ollie.” A voice behind him said.

Olivier peered back and down at the purple suit his outfitter had just laid down on the bed.

His eyes gazed over the suit in silent pleasure. “I like the color.” He grinned lightly, looking up at the outfitter.

“Of course you do.” She simply said, and walked across the room to arrange his full outfit.

“You’re all done.” Olivier jumped up, more than happy to be able to move, then his hairstylist grabbed his wrist. “Do _not_ touch your hair.”

“What will you have done if I do? It’s weird.” He glanced back at himself in the mirror, tilting his head, smile hinting mischief. He chuckled. “And don’t the girls like it?”

“Save it for the stage, then, Loverboy.” She gave him one more death glare before dropping his arm, and began cleaning up her station.

“Here are your shoes, your tie, your dress shirt. You have 30 minutes until you’re expected to be out there.”  His outfitter gestured to all mentioned items of clothing laid out precisely on the bed, sighing and blowing away a stray strand of orange hair. Olivier walked over and inspected them.

“Thank you. See you then.” He smiled at the two of them, grabbing the dress shirt immediately and began undressing out of his casual wear.

They gave him looks of disapproval; His outfitter rolled her eyes, and they hurried out. Olivier snickered. These human girls, what would their reaction be to Dalish communal bathing? That was practiced rarely in his clan, but it was still amusing to ponder.

He slipped on his outfit, and found himself staring at his appearance in the mirror. He mindlessly rubbed the creases of his suit, which looked half a size too big on him. Still, though unthinkable, and incredibly strange, that a Dalish elf like him would be found in such an outfit, he loved seeing it on himself. He was excited to enter the stage. Even if for now it was just a rehearsal.

He picked an Ardent Blossom out of the bouquet of flowers atop his vanity and slid it down the front pocket of his suit. Then, when he heard the sound of instruments tuning, he hurried out the door.

* * *

 

Admittedly, this was the third time he showered that day. He had bathed plenty in the past few weeks at Qarinus, yet the sense of contamination, the leftover traces of Ulio, the shame, remained in his body. Suddenly, whatever made Ulio so enticing was gone and transformed into something nauseating, and he felt immensely ashamed that he acted so much like a whore. Dorian was grateful his parents did not choose to treat him like a legitimate prisoner. He was treated more like a boy who was grounded for misbehaving, and was given a clean room with a functioning bathroom, thank the Maker. It was the lack of punishment, though, that most hurt his pride.

There was punishment, but in _his_ standards, it was rather meek. Dorian was almost disappointed in his father for the lack of finesse. He had seen horrid things done on others in his place; He hid a large pocket of fear inside of him the ride there. His father could have legitimately put his talents to good use and forced him back to work at the Minrathous Circle. Or, the option of turning him into a magical slave remained- not Tranquil, Dorian would never have let that happen, but there were certainly spells in the books that could make him some sort of magical jester. Dorian didn’t even put another attempt at blood magic past Halward.

A scolding by your father lacks influence when you’re the ripe age of 26. He had received several.

Dorian later noticed how bland his meals were. In the first few weeks, the unsatisfactory dinners and blunt neglection weren’t that hard to handle.

Until it turned into months. Months turned into years. And 28 year old Dorian realized emotional torture is found easily in isolation, especially to a man who had spent the previous months of his life desperate for intimacy with another human being.

That’s why he didn’t belittle himself when his cope mechanism, besides spending the day calculating a foolproof escape plan, was thinking of Him.

It turns out that seeing 10 seconds of an elf is more than enough to form a devoting attachment to one, and that’s essentially what he developed. Some days, for an hour and then some, he said His name repeatedly, letting its syllables rhythmically drift off his tongue. Sometimes, he drew His face tattoo in the air with his finger as he lay on the bed. His memory of it was horrid, to be frank.

Through all of this immense attraction, the fact that He was an elf barely crossed his mind. Cullen was easy to fall in love with: a human with a simple, bashful personality; Sexy. The Lavellan was a mysterious, ethereal beauty - exotic, forbidden, boy-like in his mannerisms (Dorian desperately hoped he wasn't too young) with songs so innocent and promising and a voice serene, like silk, deep enough to say “I as a grown man can still be taken seriously with these childish lyrics”. The 10 seconds and “Mythal” was all he had of this beau, and he swallowed all of it up. When male servants arrived to deliver his meals, he saw Him.

The way out was a lot less complicated than he expected it to be. His lunch arrived, and he grabbed hold of the male elf servant, interrogating and intimidating his way out of his “cell”, the security measures, and his father’s location. When he reached his room, he confronted him. Dorian would’ve done more than a black eye if he could use magic the moment he entered, the ability which returned to him shortly, after Halward lift the barrier. They quarreled, both pathetic and inexperienced with familial interaction, then Dorian stomped out the door, announcing himself cut off from the Pavus house indefinitely.

He sold the Pavus family pin to a merchant near the Qarinus docks, since this time he was legitimately alone and broke, and sailed back to Minrathous.

He willingly stepped into the doors of _The Cobra_ that first day. It was awkward meeting Ulio again and explaining to him his interest in the job. He behaved around him, acting almost too stoic for Dorian’s comfort. He tried a joke on him to loosen him up; It barely worked, and Dorian didn’t try again. The uneasiness was not to last, this he was glad of -  he decided not to stay in Minrathous, instead deciding to drift around Tevinter, purposeless, like his life.

Admittedly, the amount of times he considered himself and his life “purposeless” was becoming pitiful.

* * *

 

“That’s correct, Varric.” He laughed heartily, sitting down and wiping drops of sweat off his forehead. “Next year, the band and I will be touring the Tevinter Imperium.”

“The Imperium, ey? Who decided your life would end this early?”

Olivier chuckled, gliding his fingers through his hair. He was reminded he was not supposed to when it felt like raking through wire.

“I’ll admit I’m actually excited. Touring Thedas has been… well, an adventure is an understatement. It’s another experience.”

“You’re telling me you don’t miss your family of tree huggers back in the Marches? -Stop me if I’m being too inconsiderate. But honestly, I miss my brethren back there dearly.”

Olivier peered up at a spot on the ceiling, pondering. “Of course I do. If they’re watching… I hope they’re all doing well.” His eyes returned to Varric’s face, they seemed to house a new sense of valor. “But wherever I am is home enough to me.”

Varric tilted his head and smiled, pleasantly surprised. “Good answer.”

“Now. I’ve been wondering something, Olivier.” The elf tilted his head, signaling that he was listening. “Why the Orlesian name? I would ask more completely but I don’t want to run your people into the ground.”

This seemed to garner interest in the audience, as murmurs spread across the recording area. Olivier began touching his hair again, grinning bashfully.

“Ah, that’s the fault of my mother.”

The murmurs did not seize. Varric raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“As frequent traders with humans, and as the curious and clever elves we Dalish tend to be, many in my clan are influenced by the culture of the humans. All of us have stayed loyal to Dalish practice and strictly-elf reproduction. of course. All except my mother. Apparently, I have an elf-blooded half brother somewhere in Kirkwall.”

There were some chuckles in the crowd. He addressed the audience with a smirk.

“Not in Orlais? Or maybe there _is_ kin of yours in Orlais, and your mother just never told you.” Varric said.

Even Olivier broke into a cackle as the audience laughed rowdily.

“Maybe. Can you believe, though, Varric…. That the man who lives with my mother right now _is_ in fact a human. He helped raise me, after my birth father died in a hunting accident. He was a Fereldan trader. They hit it off when I was 2, and he’s visited the clan ever since.” This was the first time he had said this much about his past on national television. He sat back in his chair, the lightheadedness from performing on stage returning.

“That’s something you don’t hear. You do the Dalish a favor, kid. I just hope the elves in Tevinter will appreciate you the same. If you need any assistance, I know a guy.”

Olivier smiled and lifted up his eyes. “Well, ah, thank you, Varric. You do the dwarves a favor, too.”

They shook hands, and Olivier laughed. The audience applauded, Olivier vacated the stage, and the program faded to black, signaling its end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Dorian... how it hurts to see you suffering like this... 
> 
> An introduction to my Lavellan in this chapter! He's really the Frankie Avalon of the DA universe in this story.


End file.
